Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  “Early?” Bristow fastened on the word. Fairbairn had been on time; no mention of having to wait.

  “They were in that parking space when we pulled off the highway. I noticed the Honda because it was the only car with two people just sitting in it and going nowhere.”

  “I didn’t see—”

  “You were busy navigating,” she reminded him.

  Yes, the approach to the field at the side of the gas station had been full of ruts and bumps. Bristow looked at her and smiled. If he had needed corroboration that her testimony this afternoon would be accurate enough to be trusted, he had been given a small demonstration. “Acute,” he said. “You really notice.”

  Is he making fun of me? “Not always. It is just that today I’m slightly—well, on edge. That envelope really has a powerful effect. At least,” she added, “I’m rid of it.”

  But I won’t be rid of it, he thought, not for a week—two weeks—three—how many?

  She misjudged his silence. “It wouldn’t matter if your friends did add up two and two and put us together, would it? Or didn’t you want to be seen with me?” she added as a small joke.

  He didn’t share it. “The other way around. I didn’t want you to be connected with me.” Or connected in any way with the delivery of those letters.

  They had left the highway and were now following a narrow road, tree-lined, almost a country lane. Then they passed a gate to enter a curving driveway. Bristow stopped there. Ahead of them, through a screen of bushes, Karen could see a house; not large, but two-storeyed, with a steep slope of roof.

  “Yours?” she asked. And why not drive up to its door?

  “A friend’s. He’s in Spain right now. I have the use of the house on week-ends. So don’t worry. No trespassing charges will be lodged against us. Either we can go inside and have a comfortable chair in a hot room, or we can sit on the grass under a tree. Your choice.”

  “Grass.”

  “Good.”

  He led the way across the lawn, carrying the green bag and the packages. It was a short distance through a screen of trees to a half-acre field with a large maple at the edge of a small pond. On its other side, more trees. “Seclusion complete,” Karen said with approval as she sat down in the maple’s shade.

  “No mosquitoes until five o’clock, no bullfrogs until dark,” he promised her.

  “Birds?”

  “I’ve never seen or heard any around here at this time of day. I guess they’ve had lunch and are now resting. They do that at three-hour intervals, I’ve heard. So what about our lunch?” He had sat down beside her and was opening the brown paper bags. “No wonder that one was heavy! How many cans of beer?”

  “Only four. The ginger ale is for me.” How natural this all seems, she thought as she watched him unwrap the sandwiches and offer her first choice. I was scared of him—yes, scared—when we met on Muir Street. And then I forgot to be either scared or nervous, and we’ve been talking ever since as if we had known each other for years. For a moment, she allowed herself a touch of cynicism: it could all be a matter of technique. His was certainly a good one—he had put her completely at ease. Then she accepted that. Gratefully. She began to concentrate on the facts she would give, once the picnic was over and a cassette was catching every sound. Everything must be clear, unequivocal—places, times, who appeared on the scene, who said what and how it was said. All part of the picture, and no room in it for anyone to misapprehend. Even if I look stupid and ignorant, she thought, I’ll give it just as it was.

  It was almost two o’clock. “Ready?” Bristow was asking. The first cassette had been inserted, the machine waiting with the hand microphone attached. He held it out with an encouraging smile. She took the microphone, kept it at the required small distance from her lips, and began speaking. “Last Wednesday afternoon, I was waiting in my hotel room for my notes to be returned by the Czechoslovak censors. It was ten past three, and I was due to leave the hotel for the airport at half past four. The telephone rang.”

  She’s off and running, Bristow thought with sudden relief. He lay on one elbow, his eyes on her face, and listened to the calm, clear voice.

  The journey back to Washington was a silent one. Karen was more exhausted than she’d allow. Bristow had his own thoughts to mull over.

  They approached Muir Street, where he had asked to be dropped off for a quick change of clothes—he could be at Langley till midnight or later. Then he had told her he’d take the cassettes and have them locked away with the envelope. They’d be secure. Her name wouldn’t even be attached: just Prague and Vienna as identification labels. And no one would read the letters or listen to the tapes until they had been seen and heard by the Director and his second-in-command.

  That was the only available route for Bristow at this moment: Menlo, who headed the section that unravelled disinformation and oversaw its various units, such as Bristow’s, wasn’t available. Menlo had taken a ten-day leave last Wednesday and would now be angling for salmon in Nova Scotia. So Bristow was going straight to the top with this one: no intermediaries, no wading through channels. He might be sticking his neck not just out but way out. Yet this was not only an emergency but also a potential crisis. “I’ll try to see the top brass as soon as possible,” he said. It sounded simple, but it wouldn’t be. A week-end, of all times, to contact anyone... And how would he go about it? Begin by introducing himself? Peter Bristow, European Disinformation. It has come to my attention... Not bloody likely. Just say, This is something that concerns the President, and it’s urgent.

  Karen studied his face. It was tense, even if his voice had seemed normal. “And after that?” she asked quietly.

  “Possibly a select group of experts, a very small group. A lot of verification.”

  “Can you ever tell me what happens?”

  He had no answer for that, not at present. “But I’ll be in touch. I promise you that. Give me your address and ’phone number.”

  She gave him both—New York and Washington—and watched his face as he memorised them. Will I ever see him again? she wondered as he said goodbye. As he prepared to step out of the car, he said, “Get rid of this Plymouth fast. Leave it at the Statler garage and give the keys to Conrad. Got that name? He’ll have it delivered to Avis and take care of the bill. The receipt is in the glove compartment?” The book bag was over his shoulder, the car door half-open.

  “Yes. Are you trying to keep me out of sight?” she asked lightly.

  His first smile since they had started the journey back came to his lips, softened his eyes. “That would be hard to do. But if anything worries you, however small it seems, call this number.” He gave it to her, watched her jot it down in her notebook. “It’s an answering service, very reliable. Just say you can’t lunch with me—if you need to talk to me. If we need to meet, say you can’t have dinner. No name. I’ll know who it is. And I’ll be in touch. At once.” He held her hand for a few moments longer than necessary. “Thank you,” he said, and left.

  She took the wheel, watching him start the walk up Muir Street towards his apartment. He’s back in his own world, she thought, and no room for me.

  7

  It had been forty-eight hours of intense activity since Saturday evening when Peter Bristow had reached Langley. There, to his great relief, was the Director on a quick visit before a dinner engagement. Bristow delivered letters and cassettes; the quick visit became hours long, and dinner was a sandwich on a tray. What happened after that, through Sunday and well into Monday, was only Bristow’s guess. Telephone calls, scrambled; discreet visits to high places? Careful selection of experts to examine paper, type, ink, and study the forged signatures?

  Now, at five fifteen on Monday afternoon, six men were about to gather at a semicircular table in a room that was soundproof and bug-free. Windows were closed, shades drawn, lights on, and air conditioning almost noiseless. No paper or pens in front of each chair; only ashtrays, carafes of iced water, and tumblers. So, Bristow thought
as he surveyed the scene prepared for a very select committee, before this meeting was over a decision would be made: how to deal with three calumnies and two assassinations. A tall order, but an urgent one. Their discussion would be reported back to their chiefs by tonight, and their recommendations either accepted or rejected. Accepted, Bristow hoped; delays were becoming dangerous. The men who had been chosen to come here were capable and responsible, quite aware they were representing high offices. (It was obvious that the heads of State, Defense, Intelligence could not risk meeting in the Oval Office themselves. Such a conference—and it would have been a lengthy one—would have sparked rumours and the inevitable speculations, mostly wild, some disastrous.)

  Time they started arriving, Bristow thought as he stood at one side of the small room. They had all read Vasek’s three letters; now, they would listen to the Prague cassettes—the background information on how the letters reached Washington in the first place. And then he’d have to explain Farrago—and answer some questions. But that was why he was here, to be seated at a separate table which—to his embarrassment—was centred to face the semicircle of chairs. He supposed it was the logical place—the table held cassettes and player. Surely, time wouldn’t be wasted on questioning the cassettes?

  The room door opened. Menlo, his ten-day leave interrupted, was the first arrival; a tall, spare man of sixty-odd years, more grim-faced than ever, preoccupied with nightmare thoughts—he had studied the letters that morning and was still in shock. He nodded to Bristow, took a chair at one end of the crescent, and was lost in a cloud of depression.

  Martin Kirby, National Security Agency, entered next. He was an affable man with a ready smile, effective disguises for a steel-trap mind. Today he looked wan and worried, and older than his sixty-two years. A polite look was cast at Bristow; a friendly nod to Menlo although he chose a seat at the other end of the table. His modest manner was disarming: few who met him guessed he belonged to an agency that was the biggest, and most secret, of all branches of United States Intelligence.

  Drayton followed quickly. He was State Department, fifty-five years old and on his way up, a specialist in East European politics. The letters had alarmed and angered him, but he hid his emotions as usual and gave Bristow a warm greeting. “I hear you have more surprises waiting for us, Peter.”

  Bristow smiled back. “Just some clarifications.” He was thinking, I’ve got one friend at least among this bunch. As the bearer of ill tidings, he wouldn’t be exactly popular around here. That and the fact he would probably be the youngest in the room—he was thirty-nine and feeling it at this moment—put him into the lower league of less experience.

  Next to come was Robert Schlott, a brisk sixty-one in age, erect in bearing, smart in movement as a retired general should be. He was acting today as the eyes and ears for the Secretary of Defense. A nod to the room, a sharp glance at Bristow and then at the equipment on the table, and he sat down beside Maynard Drayton.

  Frederick Coulton drifted in, a mere forty-eight-year-old to be the expert he was in forgeries. He was attached to the State Department’s Bureau of Public Affairs, whose scope was wide enough to include serious study of Soviet “Active Measures” (in Russian, aktivnyye meropriyatiya), one of the KGB’s most flourishing endeavours. It master-minded political operations, from economic blackmail, forgeries, disinformation, manipulation of front organisations and cultural exchanges, to attempted control of foreign media. The Bureau of Public Affairs gathered the facts (many of them furnished by Central Intelligence officers like Peter Bristow) and even published some of them. The CIA published nothing. It was the old conflict between silence to protect agents’ identities and disclosure to alert the public. Bristow’s personal opinion was that facts not actually dangerous to security could be published; and should be. But he didn’t make policy.

  Coulton, his desultory stroll taking him to the central chair, was reminded just before he sat down by a word from his State Department colleague that the seat was reserved for the President’s special observer. Coulton shrugged, allowed his annoyance to be directed at Bristow in a brief stare. I know, I know, thought Bristow; you are wondering why the hell the letters were delivered to me and not to you. But you’ll learn, once you listen to Karen’s clear voice detailing the events in a hotel garden on the outskirts of Prague. One thing you won’t learn, though, will be her name. It is something better left unidentified, even in this roomful of eminently important people. Sufficient that it has been made available to the Director, the Secretaries of State and Defense, and the President. They need to know; you don’t.

  Unobtrusively, the special observer came into the room—Abel Fletcher, a wily old bird, with seventy-four years behind him and forty of them spent in public service: lawyer, congressman, ambassador-at-large, presidential commissions; you name it, he’s done it, thought Bristow as he left the wall against which he had been standing and took his own seat once Fletcher had sat down, and waited. It was now exactly five thirty. The Secret Service men had been left outside to disperse themselves in the long hall. Security was tight but low in profile. This meeting was supposedly on new problems in Guatemala.

  Fletcher began by placing a small recorder in front of him. “The President would like full details of our arguments,” he announced. “Any objections?”

  There were none. Bristow repressed a smile. How many had a microrecorder tucked away in either a wrist watch, a tie pin, a cigarette holder, or a cuff-link? Menlo, for one, most certainly had; Kirby of National Security, too. Schlott of Defense—possibly; Drayton of State, perhaps. Coulton? He just looked bored. All in all, it was a first small breach in tight security, but Abel Fletcher had achieved one thing: there would be no high-flown rhetoric, no unnecessary comments, no wasted time. He looked around the table, peering at each man through heavy glasses. “Of course,” he stated, “any recording of this meeting must be guarded with greatest care until it is heard by our chiefs. Then it will be destroyed. Agreed? Now we’ll begin our discussion. I, myself, will merely give a categorical denial. The President has never written such a letter. Nor has he ever discussed such matters. Nor has he ever made one small comment that would lead me to believe he had such ideas in mind.” With that, Fletcher lapsed into silence.

  Drayton and Schlott agreed that the same could be said for their Secretaries. The letters were blatant forgeries. But clever, Drayton pointed out. They could, probably would, deceive most people.

  Clever? They were dynamite, all waiting to be exploded, thought Bristow. The letters were brief. One, supposedly from the Secretary of State to the President, advised caution in solving the threatening problem in West Germany, but agreed that covert action by CIA operatives was the most suited for immediate success. There was every indication that a one-time chancellor of West Germany was seeking a return to power after nine years in limbo and could be successful. He was now increasingly pro-Soviet in his views as he adopted the current anti-American crusade in the German press. His election would be disastrous for the United States.

  The second letter, again to the President and dated a day later than State’s, was a succinct statement from Defense. Necessary military support could follow the projected covert action to eliminate, once and for all, the constant source of danger in the Caribbean area, which over the years had been a permanent threat to anti-Communist governments.

  Two days later, the President’s supposed letter was written to the Secretary of the State Department. He agreed with the need for immediate action in both of the projects which had been discussed at length five days ago in the Oval Office. He was sending Defense a similar statement of his support. He advised them to coordinate their plans with Central Intelligence without delay.

  And judging from the letters’ dates, Bristow thought, that reference to “five days” could very well have meant a discussion on West Germany and Cuba.

  The talk in the room was still focusing on the acceptance of these forgeries by the press and general public. “They wo
uld seem authentic,” Menlo predicted. Tests made by Central Intelligence had proven that the stationery used was correct, from seals and letterheads down to the weight and colour of paper. The ink was correct, too. The machines’ typefaces were similar to those used in the three offices, and the initials of the typists involved were all in order except that the owners of these initials had no record of having typed any exchange of letters between Secretaries and President on these respective dates. “But that’s no proof of forgery,” Menlo ended. “The cynics will say that the women were ordered to destroy and forget any such records.”

  “We have one proof in the date used for the Secretary of State’s letter. It couldn’t exist,” Drayton said. “He was at a secret meeting in Saudi Arabia that lasted three days. It was completely hush-hush—he travelled as an oil executive in a private plane. The second day of that meeting was the date on that damned letter. So it’s impossible he could have signed it.”

  “And can you publicise the hush-hush meeting now?” Kirby asked. “Or is it equally impossible—like that signature?”

  “Probably,” Drayton conceded. “It’s all extremely sensitive.”

  “My main challenge to the authenticity of the letters is simply this: who in their right senses would dictate such letters, have them typed? Even if they were clearly marked Highest Security?” Kirby shook his head. “A few quiet meetings, a verbal agreement surely. But a letter?” The National Security Agency would never be so careless in its methods, his raised eyebrows suggested.

  Schlott came smartly to the aid of Defense. “We take no serious action without definite orders. A verbal agreement would not be enough for any investigating Senate committee.”

  Abel Fletcher said, “Gentlemen, gentlemen! We know the letters are forgeries but proof seems difficult. What about the signatures, Mr. Coulton? You are our expert on that branch of intelligence.”